Fabrication
by purseplayer
Summary: Kurt and Blaine navigate a world where love is fabricated, longing for something real. Unfortunately, true love comes at a heavy cost.
1. Part One: Richard

**A/N: **This story has been in my head for over a year now, and I'm so happy to finally be sharing it! Updates are currently planned for twice a week - probably Mondays and Fridays - and I welcome any and all feedback, including constructive criticism and questions :-) Rating may go up in future chapters.

* * *

_Part One – Age 5 – Richard _

His son's small hand was clammy in his as Richard Anderson pulled him along, excitement and anxiety bleeding through every pore of his tiny body.

Or maybe the nerves were entirely Richard's own.

It was a big day, perhaps the biggest of Blaine's life. Today they would order Blaine a Fab.

Richard had heard every argument in the book about the possible dangers of selecting Blaine's mate when he was only five, and he had confidently dismissed every one of them. Blaine was a special child—precocious, often giddy and unsettled, but also prone to emotional outbursts. A Fab at his age would be a friend to him and, with any luck, tame his excitable nature. They could grow up together, fall in love as the natural course of things.

He pushed open the door of the austere brick building, allowing Blaine to enter first but not letting go of his hand. Richard caught his eye as they approached the secretary's desk—a warning, and for once Blaine seemed to heed it obediently. His posture straightened, and his free hand flew up to fiddle with his bowtie.

"Sir?" the secretary said, snaring his attention.

"Good morning," Richard told her politely, offering the woman his friendliest smile. "My name is Richard Anderson. We're here to order a Fab for my son, Blaine."

"Ah yes," the secretary beamed at Blaine before turning back to him. "Mr. Anderson. Mr. Vance is almost ready for you, Sir, if you'll just have a seat."

"Thank you. Come along, Blaine."

"Oh, wait!" the secretary stopped them, reaching for something hidden behind the desk and swiftly producing a basketful of lollipops. "Would you like one?" she asked Blaine, her eyes on Richard as if seeking his approval.

Richard looked down at his son and nodded tersely. It was far too early in the day for candy, but appearances must be maintained. Blaine's face lit up in obvious delight, his hand twisting in his father's as he reached out to select—predictably—a shiny red sucker from the basket. "Later," Richard mouthed to his son. They both thanked the woman as Richard tugged him towards the waiting area, choosing a chair in the far corner and nodding again when Blaine's eyes landed on a model car tucked away in a pile of toys.

Their wait was short; a door opened and a man in a neat grey suit appeared, smiling jovially as he scanned the room and caught Richard's eye. "Mr. Anderson!" he exclaimed, approaching and sticking out his hand for Richard to shake. "Howard Vance. Why, I think I remember you! You brought your boy in, Cooper, was it? I have a good mind for names. That must have been more than five years ago now!"

"Yes, that's right," Mr. Anderson said, taken aback by the man's enthusiasm. Now that he thought about it, he did recall leaving with a headache the last time they met.

Blaine was still absorbed with the car, and Richard was about to call for his attention when Mr. Vance took notice of him, moving closer until he was standing over the boy.

"It this one yours too? Blaine, is it? He's awfully young!"

"Yes, I'm aware," Richard said tightly, hoping he wouldn't be called upon to defend his decision yet again. If that happened, he would simply leave and take his business elsewhere.

"Well," Mr. Vance continued after a long moment, finally tearing his gaze away from Blaine, who had been watching him with trepidation. "I have seen them younger. Why don't you both follow me?"

Blaine returned the car with obvious reluctance, trailing after his father into the man's office.

"Now," Mr. Vance said once they'd all taken seats, "why don't you tell me a little bit about what you'd like, Blaine."

Blaine looked at his father first, and Richard nodded, silently praying the boy didn't say anything too embarrassing. "I want…" Blaine began, trailing off uncertainly. "I want someone to watch Disney movies with and go to plays like the fun ones Mommy takes me to with the singing."

Not exactly what Richard had been hoping for, but then again his son was only five. "Musical aptitude and an appreciation of and talent for the arts," he told Mr. Vance, who nodded and marked something on a sheet of paper. "Go on, Blaine."

Blaine looked deep in thought. "I want them to be a good cook, like Mommy, but they have to like their peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles, not across! And it would be cool if they could play with me on the playground and stuff, and maybe liked to play dolls and stuff too…"

Richard winced a little at that, but his son didn't notice. "Obviously we want someone who is intellectually gifted," he said. "Is there anything else, Blaine?"

"What do you want your partner to look like?" Mr. Vance prompted, studying Blaine intently. The boy squirmed in his seat until a stern look from his father made him stiffen abruptly.

This was the part that Richard was most nervous about, but fortunately he'd come prepared for disaster.

"Like Prince Eric, you know, from _The Little Mermaid_," Blaine answered easily.

Disaster like that.

Richard inhaled sharply, staring pointedly at the wall in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with forced patience. "Blaine, why don't you go sit in the waiting room while I discuss some things with Mr. Vance?"

"Yessir," Blaine said quickly, his eyebrows raising in alarm at the warning in his father's voice.

"Here, Blaine," Mr. Vance said, handing him a piece of paper. "I'm assuming that the boy can read?" he asked Richard, then continued once this was confirmed. "It's a personality profile sheet, but I gave him the version for children. Once we're finished speaking you can help him with it, if necessary.

"That's fine," Richard said, then turned to his son. "Well, go on, Blaine.

The boy scurried out of his chair and to the door, shutting it behind him with an exaggerated click. Once he was sure Blaine was gone, Richard stood and reached slowly for his wallet, Mr. Vance watching him with ill-concealed interest.

As he pulled out the old photo, Richard couldn't help the rush of longing that surged within him. Twenty years later, and she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The pain was still sharp and fresh at the memory of how they'd been so cruelly ripped apart. It had been another world back then, when Fabs were still new. The government-mandated order forbidding natural matches had been a shock to nearly everyone.

Stoically, Richard forced his emotions aside. That was a matter of the heart, and his head knew better. Society had thrived under the new system, and he couldn't be happier with the Fab he'd selected for his wife.

Mr. Vance whistled when Richard showed him the picture. "Wow, she's quite a beauty, that's for sure!"

"You think you can recreate that?"

"It's an old picture, faded," Mr. Vance said. "It won't be perfect, but we should be able to come close."

Richard nodded. "I, umm… I will get that back, won't I?" he asked, indicating the photo.

"Of course, Mr. Anderson. Good as new!"

"Great," Richard said, feeling his body relax. "Well, then, were there any other questions?"

Mr. Vance's expression faded into something more serious. "There is the matter of price…"

"That won't be an issue," Richard assured him.

"Lovely," Mr. Vance declared, smile back in place. "Unless there's something else you wanted to specify, we'll just need that form completed, then."

"I'll go help Blaine with it now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Vance."

"Certainly, it was my pleasure."

When he left the office, Richard felt somehow emptier, as if the absence of the photograph he always carried in his pocket left a physical gap in its wake.

Ridiculous.

"Alright, Blaine," he said, startling the small boy where he was curled in a seat, paper before him and eraser between his teeth. "Let's see if we can make sure you give all the right answers, son."


	2. Part Two: Burt

_Part Two – Age 8 – Burt _

Kurt woke up one morning and his mother was dead. It was arguably the most horrible thing a child could experience.

It was worse for Burt.

The pain of losing his wife seemed insurmountable, this was true, but the consequences of her death… they loomed with the promise of something even more unthinkable.

A single Fab was not allowed to raise a child.

Thirty days—the span of time he had to find someone else, a new Nat who would be willing to take him and his eight-year-old son. Days as thin as paper, as intangible as the wind. A task that seemed more impossible than locating the proverbial needle in a haystack.

But Burt would do it; he had to for Kurt.

He posted ads in every paper within a fifty mile radius. He placed his profile on every claiming site, even went to a few auctions out of desperation in the final week. In his thirties and saddled with a child—even with his clean record and successful business—it was unsurprising that not a single woman showed interest.

Two days to go and he doggedly headed to the local Registry office, fully prepared to beg.

And there she was.

Full-figured with her auburn hair twisted into a messy bun, there was something about the woman that Burt found striking, even with the fat tears rolling down her rosy face.

He didn't speak as he approached, simply dug in his back pocket for the hanky he kept there out of habit and offered it up. The woman peered up at him, her watery eyes large and glistening, and took it slowly, mopping up her face with a complete lack of decorum and then blowing loudly while Burt watched her in silence.

"Thank you," she said once she had composed herself.

Burt nodded. "Of course."

"I—"she cut off in a broken laugh, hiccupping through it. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess; I know. It's been that kind of day."

"Well, we've all had 'em," Burt said.

"Yeah," the woman agreed with another hiccup, pressing a hand flat to her chest and breathing deeply until her body seemed to regain some equilibrium. "This one's been a doozy. My Fab—they took him for the army. I guess he's not coming home."

Burt's heart leapt in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

The woman chuckled wryly. "Yeah. I suppose I'll be getting that a lot."

A beat of silence. "I lost my mate myself about a month back. What with my boy and having to rush to find a new Nat and all… it's been rough."

"You're a Fab," the woman said in dead-pan, posture straightening in shock. "You're so put-together and you were alone I… I wouldn't have guessed."

This time, it was Burt who laughed nervously.

"I'm sorry," the woman said immediately. "That was rude. I'm Carole Hudson."

She stuck out her hand, and Burt shook it politely, their contact lingering.

"Burt. Burt Hummel."

Their eyes locked for a long moment, and then Carole finally, abruptly pulled her hand away.

"I better be getting to my business," Burt said.

"Of course."

She moved aside, allowing Burt to enter the building. He was tempted to look back over his shoulder one last time, but he didn't.

Burt's efforts at the registry office unsurprisingly came to naught. That night he cried himself to sleep for the first time in his life while Kurt slept, oblivious, in the next room over. When he woke in the morning, he forced all he felt aside.

If this was the last day he would ever spend with his son, then he was going to make it a damn good one.

The sun was barely risen when he crept into Kurt's room, watching him sleep for a good ten minutes before he grew too impatient and shook him awake.

"Hey buddy! How do pancakes sound this morning? You want to help your old man make 'em?"

Kurt blinked bleary blue eyes and yawned, slowly sitting up. "Blueberries?"

"Sure, if we've still got some of those frozen ones you always insist we buy."

"Okay," Kurt agreed, climbing out of bed and heading straight for the wardrobe. "I'll be downstairs in a bit."

"You need some help?" Burt asked as he watched Kurt sift through his clothing, all carefully hand-sewn and so different from what other boys his age wore. He already knew the answer.

Kurt turned to him and rolled his eyes. "No, Dad, not from _you_."

"Alright then," Burt said, smiling even though he felt the sudden threat of tears. "I'll see you downstairs."

* * *

They were halfway through stacks of blueberry pancakes, the kitchen still a disaster, when the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house.

"Who could that be?" Burt said. "You expecting friends?"

Kurt frowned at him. Come to think of it, it had been a couple of years since his son had had any friends over to their house save for Mercedes, who always and only came after church on Sundays.

"Guess not. I'll go check it out."

He pushed back from the table and made his way down the hall, feeling a little irritated when the bell chimed a second time. When he swung open the door, however, all those feelings faded away into confused shock.

"Carole?"

The woman smiled at him. She looked more composed today and actually quite pretty—blue jeans and a matching jacket with a floral print blouse underneath, her hair down and styled and framing her face. "In the flesh. Can I… can I come in?"

"Uh, sure," Burt said, stepping aside and gesturing into the house. "Kurt—that's my son—and I were just having pancakes, if you'd like some."

"Pancakes sound great, actually. Thank you."

It was more than a little awkward leading Carole down the hall and into the kitchen, Kurt peering up at the stranger curiously as soon as they entered. "Who's she?" he asked, with all the tact that could be expected of a child his age.

Burt ignored him momentarily and instead pulled out the only other chair at their small, round dining table—the chair that had belonged to Elizabeth. "Have a seat," he told Carole, heading to the cupboard to grab her a plate and loading it with pancakes.

"I'm Carole," she told Kurt. "I'm a… a friend, of your father's."

Burt met her eyes and crooked an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, returning to the table and handing her the plate and a fork before resuming his own eating.

"How come I've never met you before?" Kurt asked.

Carole looked a bit stumped at that. "Well, to be honest, your Dad and I just met yesterday."

"Oh," Kurt said.

"These pancakes are very good," she said, directing the compliment at Kurt. "Did you make them?"

Kurt finally cracked a smile. "Dad and I both did. He's not much of a cook on his own."

"Hey!" Burt exclaimed. "I represent that remark!"

Kurt giggled, then leaned closer to Carole. "He says that a lot. He thinks he's funny."

"I can hear you, you know," Burt said loudly. "And you think it's funny too; you always laugh!"

Kurt stuck his tongue out, and Burt mockingly returned the gesture. "Such manners," Carole said. But she was smiling.

After they finished eating, Burt gathered their plates and took them to the sink. "So Carole, why the visit?" He tried to sound casual, but he knew it must be something important because showing up at the home of someone you ran into once was not normal. And how did she know where they lived, anyway?

"Kurt, will you excuse us?" she asked.

Burt looked over at his son. He looked surprised.

"Umm, sure," Kurt agreed, looking to Burt. "I'll be in my room?"

"That's fine, Kurt, thank you." As soon as he was gone, Burt rounded on Carole. "I don't appreciate you directing him like that. How did you find us, anyways?"

"I went back the registry office a few hours later. You were already gone. I asked them about you."

Burt scoffed. "And they just told you everything? That's illegal."

"I told them I wanted to claim you."

Silence. Burt gripped the edge of the sink too-tight.

"Why would you do that?" he asked finally. "That's insane. You don't even know me."

"I couldn't get you out of my mind after I left. What you said. I realized afterward about the laws and… and what they meant. You seemed like a decent guy. I couldn't let you lose your son."

"I was a stranger," Burt said, turning around to look at her. "I… I am a stranger."

"We'll get to know each other in time," Carole said gently. She had finished her pancakes and pushed the plate aside. "I can… I can show you the papers."

He watched as she fumbled through her purse, finally pulling out a thick, folded white stack and handing it over. Burt smoothed it out and scanned over it.

"Looks official," he said, fumbling for better words.

"It is."

"I…"

Carole stood, walking over to him. "It's okay, Burt. I know you'll both need time."

"Thank you," Burt managed. He had never before felt so overwhelmed with emotion, relief and gratitude and panic and anger all warring within him. "We… we have a guest room. Unless you'd like us to…"

"This place is much nicer, and bigger, than mine."

Burt nodded. "I'll tell Kurt then."

"Alright," Carole said, offering him a soft smile.

* * *

It took months—maybe years—before everything worked itself out. Tantrums from Kurt, power struggles that turned into fights, hours of tentative negotiation that really needn't have happened. Legally, Carole held all the power over their lives. But Carole was a good woman, a fair woman, and somewhere along the way Burt fell in love again.

Somewhere along the way they became a family.


	3. Part Three: Kurt

_Part Three – Age 13 – Kurt _

Kurt couldn't say exactly when it started. He had always felt it, how he was somehow set apart, shunned, _different_ from his peers. Somewhere along the way it morphed into jabs and taunts, then little shoves in the hallway, feet stuck out just far enough to make him trip and, eventually, slushies thrown in his face and daily stints in the dumpster and the kind of pushing around that left bruises and the occasional cut.

It didn't bother him, really, beyond the damage to his wardrobe.

At least it didn't until his dad found out.

Burt marched his way straight to the principal's office, dragging Kurt behind him, and gave the man quite the earful. Kurt didn't even know the meaning of half of the words his father used.

Principal Figgins pretended to listen politely, but Kurt recognized all too easily the nature of the smile plastered on his face. "Are you the natural parent, Sir?" Figgins asked when Burt was forced to stop for air.

"No," Burt answered, standing firm and proud. "But I am the only biological one."

"I see. I'm assuming you do have a Nat though?"

Burt gritted his teeth. "I'd have to, wouldn't I?"

Figgins' smile widened, and he dug around in his filing cabinet for a moment, eventually producing a sheet of paper. "Here," he said, handing it to Burt. "Give this to your Nat; she can fill it out and file a formal complaint. The school board reviews them in the order they're received."

Burt snatched the paper from his grasp. "So that's it then? My boy is being physically assaulted, and you're just going to sit behind a desk and tell me to fill out a form? You have an obligation to keep your students safe!"

"And we fulfill it," Figgins said, the slightest hint of irritation leaking into his voice. "My hands are tied, _Sir_. I'm afraid there is protocol that must be followed, and you are currently in violation of it!"

Burt leaned forward over the principal's desk, stopping inches from his face and slamming his fist down loudly on the wooden surface. Figgins flinched. "The thing is, I don't give a damn about your protocol."

"Dad," Kurt said, stepping forward to grasp his father's elbow and giving it a firm tug. "We need to go."

"Yeah," Burt growled, finally giving ground. "I figure there's no one here to reason with."

Together, they turned and left the office.

"The Registry will be hearing about this!" Figgins called after them.

Burt paused, his body noticeably tensing, and for the first time in his young life, Kurt was tempted to give someone the finger.

* * *

Three months later, the appropriate forms long submitted and presumably ignored, found Kurt's family in much the same boat.

"I don't know what to do, Carole," Kurt overheard his father saying to his mate. "I can't keep sending him back there, not when they treat him like this, and we can't afford a private school."

"Maybe we can help him," Carole suggested. "Figure out why they treat him like this and see if he can't… adjust his behavior to something more acceptable."

"I can't believe you just said that! My son has every right to be exactly who he is—it's those other asshole kids who need an adjustment!"

"Of course he should be who he is!" Carole said, her voice gentle but defensive. "I wasn't meaning… it's just… his clothes, Burt. They're a little… out there."

"There's nothing wrong with his clothing!" Burt retorted. He paused, then continued more softly, "He makes them himself. His mother taught him how."

"Maybe he could make something a bit more mainstream…."

Something clattered loudly, and suddenly his father's voice sounded much closer. "I'm not having this conversation with you. My son does _not _need to change!"

"Burt, be reasonable…"

"No, Carole. I'm done."

A door slammed closed, and Kurt sat very still in his bed, listening intently. A few minutes later, his door cracked open, and Burt stepped into his room.

"Hey, Buddy! I wanted to say goodnight!"

"Dad," Kurt said, finding his father's eyes in the darkness. "I heard you."

He could barely make it out, but Burt's face fell into an unmistakable frown. "That's… that's not for you to worry about, Kurt."

"Dad," Kurt repeated, placing heavier emphasis on the word. "You were fighting about me."

Silence fell between them, and then Burt was moving closer, sitting himself down on the edge of Kurt's bed. "Carole and I are fine, okay? This is just… it's just a tough situation for all of us, Buddy, and neither of us know what to do. We both hate seeing you hurting like this."

"I don't mind so much," Kurt said, speaking carefully so his words were even, "about the clothes. Carole's… Carole's right. I do think that's why they… why they don't like me." He stared down at his quilt, picking at threads he couldn't see with his fingers.

"No." Burt said firmly. "No, we're going to find a better way. They shouldn't care what you wear, Kurt. They should care who you are. And you're a pretty damned good kid, if I do say so myself."

Kurt smiled at his father's praise. "You really think so?"

Burt nodded. "Course I do," he said seriously. "I did raise you, after all."

Kurt giggled, breaking off when he felt his father's hand cupping the side of his face. "It's late; you should be asleep. Get some rest now."

Kurt wriggled down under the covers obediently. "Yes Sir."

"Goodnight, Kurt. I love you."

"Love you too."

His eyes squeezed shut, Kurt allowed the fading sound of his father's heavy footsteps to lull him to sleep.

* * *

Kurt didn't hear Burt and Carole talking about the matter again, but a week later his parents made him stay back with them in the living room after dinner.

"Kurt. Carole and I have been brainstorming. We have an idea we want to propose to you."

"We're very worried about your safety at school, honey. And there's not much your teachers will do about it, and we can't afford to send you somewhere else, so we thought it might be good if you had someone else who could go there with you, help watch your back."

"Someone else?" Kurt repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"It's not a perfect solution," Carole admitted. "But it may be the best we've got."

"I don't understand," Kurt said. "Who is there to come to school with me? How is that even possible?"

His father leaned forward in his armchair, placing his hand over Kurt's where it rested on his knee. "Your mother and I started saving up the day you were born," Burt said softly. "Every week, like clockwork. Carole has been kind enough to allow it to continue."

"Save up," Kurt echoed in deadpan. "Save up for what?"

"We wanted you to have a custom Fab when you came of age. So you could avoid the auctions, have a mate that really suited you."

Kurt gasped. "Dad…"

"Now, we won't be able to afford that at the age you are now," Burt continued. "This is much sooner than planned. But you could choose someone from the factories, certainly."

"I—"Kurt paused, breathing deeply and willing the rapid beat of his heart to slow. "I don't know what to say. How can we afford to keep him?"

"That's all worked out," Carole said. "The hospital's allowing me to pick up an extra shift each week. It'll be enough."

"And I expect both of you to help out at the shop on the weekends and in the summer," Burt added.

"Wow. Dad, Carole, I…"

"Is that a yes?" his father prodded hopefully.

Kurt closed his eyes. As Carole had said, it wasn't the perfect solution… but it was everything he had dreamed of for so long, and he was getting it _now_.

He opened them, considering his father and Carole in turn.

"Yes."

* * *

The building was indistinguishable from any other factory Kurt had ever seen—humongous, rectangular, constructed of faded, rusty blue aluminum. They entered into a block of offices, a stark contrast to the building's exterior.

The hallway was empty, but it was only a few moments before a man appeared who looked to be in his thirties. His dress was appropriate for a business man, but sloppy, causing Kurt to wrinkle his nose. A crooked nametag read _Dave: Manager_.

"Ms. Hudson?" the man questioned, sticking his hand out towards Carole, ignoring Burt and Kurt completely.

She frowned at him but shook his hand regardless. "Yes. And this is my mate, Burt, and our son, Kurt. He's the one who needs the Fab."

"Right," the man said, finally looking over to Kurt. "Well, we make them at infant and ages five, ten, fifteen and twenty."

"I'd like a fifteen year-old, I think," Kurt told him, glancing at his father for confirmation. Burt nodded. "A male, please."

The man's expression never faltered. "Right," he said again. "Follow me."

They followed 'Dave' through a door at the end of the hallway that led to a wider corridor and then through a set of larger double doors that opened into the main body of the factory. Kurt gasped. Before him stretched rows and rows of _people_, each standing stiff as a soldier with a little plaque set before them. Dave directed them off to the right another twenty yards or so, then stopped. "These five rows are our fifteen-year-old males. If you don't see anything you like, we have additional options in our catalogue available for order. Certain upgrades are available too, but I doubt you could afford them on your budget."

Burt looked about ready to club the man, but Carole put him off of it with a single look. He settled for grunting instead. "Go ahead buddy," he said to Kurt.

Kurt took a deep breath and slowly started down the first row.

There were boys of every imaginable size and coloring, all looking polished and perfectly fit. Kurt paused in front of a blonde boy with beautiful deep sea-green eyes, then again before a tallish Fab with adorable thick black curls. So many of the options were appealing, and then again they creeped him out—their limbs unmoving, their eyes unseeing, and yet it felt as though they were peering into his very soul.

"How do I choose?" he whispered to his father.

Burt's hands closed over his shoulders, squeezing gently. "Best I can say is just go with your gut."

"Consider what you want," Carole offered. "What's important to you? The cards should tell you a little about them."

"Actually," Dave said, "our models come pretty standard internally. They all have average intelligence and an equal aptitude for personal development, learning, and interests—they'll adapt to what their Nat wants and also to the environment around them."

"Oh," Carole said. "Well then, Kurt—pick the most handsome!" She winked at him but he barely managed to smile in return, still nervous and unsure.

"So I can teach them to, say, like music?" Kurt asked.

"Certainly, to an extent. He should learn to perform admirably, but real talent would require an upgrade in musical aptitude."

Kurt nodded. "Alright, I think I understand."

He continued to peruse the options, the others trailing behind him. He paused several times before models he found particularly attractive, but none of them were _it_. Then again, he wasn't sure exactly what _it _wouldbe.

Until he saw him.

The boy was handsome enough, yes, but compared to many of the others he was unremarkable in every way… except for his size. He gave the impression of _safe_, and safe, Kurt realized suddenly, was what he most wanted to be.

"This one," Kurt said, feeling absolutely certain. "I want this one." Brown hair, brown eyes, and at fifteen already nearing the six-foot mark, Kurt could tell. "Will he get taller?"

"It's quite possible, yes. At this age most of our models continue to grow for another few years."

Kurt nodded, pleased with the information.

"We'd like him to go to school with Kurt," Burt said, drawing the salesman's reluctant attention. "Is he gonna be able to keep up?"

"As I mentioned, all our models have average intelligence—advanced intelligence is possible, but it's a very pricy upgrade," Burt's eyes narrowed at this, but he thankfully remained silent, and the man continued. "He'll be perfectly capable of keeping up in school, and we program them with the knowledge they'll need to match a given grade free of charge."

"Eighth grade," Burt said tersely.

"Very well."

"Will he…" Kurt stopped mid-sentence and flushed, looking at the ground and then at his father. "Will he like me?"

The adults were puzzled for a moment, and it was Carole who first figured it out. "Oh!" she said, startled, then turned to Dave. "He wants to know if his Fab will be attracted to him," she clarified gently.

"Once they're chosen, our Fabs are programmed to respond to the gender of choice. It won't be more specific than that, but we do attune them to you. He'll feel a level of attachment to you, as your Fab."

"Great," Kurt said, blushing more deeply, relieved.

"Are there any other questions?" Dave prompted. No one spoke again, and for the first time that afternoon, the salesman cracked a smile. "Good. If you'll come back to my office, I'll have you fill out the order form and we'll get you out the door. Your order should be ready within two weeks. Would you like him to be activated before delivery?"

He directed his question towards Kurt, who considered him blankly.

"He means do you want to him be… animated… before he comes to the house, or would you like to do it yourself?" Carole explained.

"Oh. Umm, activated first, please. It's a little creepy, seeing them like this." Kurt shuddered, and the four made their way out of the display room and into Dave's much more comfortable office.

* * *

Finn (Kurt had meant to choose a meaningful name, but clicking through the internet this one had jumped out at him) arrived two weeks later in a blue zip-up hoodie and baggie jeans—clothes the man accompanying him assured Kurt he had chosen himself.

"Sign here," he said, handing the clipboard to Carole who passed it to Kurt. Kurt almost missed the line, he was so busy staring.

The man nodded at them once the clipboard was returned to him and gave Carole a thick packet of information. "Warranty stuff is in there. It's good for a year."

Carole thanked the man, who smiled politely in return, and then he was gone, and Finn was standing there looking very much like a lost, oversized puppy.

"Finn?" she said, apparently realizing that Kurt was in no condition to speak. "Why don't you come inside, sweetie, get something to eat? I'm Carole." She held out her hand to him and he stared at it, bemused, before taking it and shaking it as expected. She stepped back and gestured into the house, and Finn finally walked inside, taking in his surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Carole's hand closed around Kurt's wrist, tugging him forward until he was right at Finn's side. "This is Kurt," she said kindly. "He's your Nat."

"Kurt," Finn repeated, all his attention re-focused in an instant. Kurt swallowed thickly.

"Hi," he all but squeaked out.

"Burt lives here too, but he won't be home until dinnertime," Carole said. "Why don't you come to the kitchen and I'll fix you some lunch? Then Kurt can show you to where you'll be sleeping."

"Sure, thank you," Finn said, still staring at Kurt.

Kurt didn't know what to think, what to feel, and least of all what to do. He'd never been so overwhelmed in his life. But when he finally regained enough control of his body to move, putting one foot in front of the other until somehow he was following Carole, Finn trailed along obediently behind him. It would have to do for now.


	4. Part Four: Blaine

_Part Four – Age 13 – Blaine_

It wasn't as easy as it looked, being Blaine Anderson.

He had always been the envy of his peers. A wealthy father, a popular, well-known older brother, a Fab of his own since he'd first started grade school. Everyone thought his life was perfect. Everyone wanted to be his friend.

But Blaine knew the truth. Blaine didn't have any real friends except for Quinn. They were all smiles and jokes and favors to his face, but Blaine heard the ridicule they'd whisper when they didn't think he could hear. The rich boy. The snob. Why, he was just too good for anyone, wasn't he?

But that wasn't the worst of it. Not by far.

By middle school, a few more of his classmates had acquired Fabs of their own. Peter and Andrew, in particular, were eager to ingratiate themselves by means of shared experience. They would regularly corner him at recess to talk about their Fabs and ask for his advice.

"So Blaine, you've had yours for years now… how do you get 'em to, you know, let you touch?"

"You don't need permission, Drew. Something must be wrong with yours. Rita lets me feel her up, no problem. And if they don't want it… well, then you just take it, right? I mean, she is yours."

The problem was that Blaine had never done any of that with Quinn. Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, his father had taken Blaine aside and given him The Talk. Blaine had known about sex by then, of course, had wondered secretly what the fuss was all about. His father's advice just confused him further, made him feel pressured to feel all these things he simply didn't. Was something wrong with him?

Nearly a year later, the box of condoms his dad had gifted him with a knowing wink still sat in his drawer unopened. Cooper had found them a few months back, had ruffled his hair affectionately. "Just a late bloomer, aren't ya Blainey?"

Apparently he was.

Well, so much for that!

* * *

His mother and father were at yet another dinner party, his brother and his Fab, Cassandra, at a _party_, and that left Blaine and Quinn with the house to themselves.

Blaine found her in her room, sprawled out on her stomach on the bed with a book. Typical Friday night.

"Whatcha reading, Quinn?" he asked, climbing up beside her and mimicking her posture.

Quinn hummed. "It's new, called _The Hunger Games_. You should read it. You wouldn't believe the things they do to these kids!"

"Sure," Blaine said. "But… can it wait? I kind of made us dinner."

Quinn turned to look at him, a horrified expression on her face. "No pizza tonight?"

"Umm… no," Blaine said, feeling his face heat at her predictable reaction. Pizza was Quinn's favorite food, and with his parents gone in the evenings more often than not, it had become a weekly tradition. "But I made brownies!"

"Hmmph," Quinn said, still frowning. "_Maybe_ I could forgive you for brownies."

"Come eat with me?" Blaine pleaded, using his best puppy-dog eyes.

Quinn sighed, closing her book. "I suppose the slaughter can wait…"

Blaine beamed at her and all but jumped off the bed, making a beeline for the door. Quinn rolled her eyes and followed in a much more lady-like fashion.

When they reached the dining room she froze on the spot, her eyes widening. "Wow, Blaine. What's all this?"

Blaine blushed and shuffled his feet, his fingers playing absentmindedly with his bowtie. "It's… umm… it's dinner?" He'd set the table as best he knew how with his mother's china and found some candles from last Thanksgiving in the cupboard. Blaine hoped she wouldn't mind when they came up missing.

"It's beautiful," Quinn said in a breath, stepping forward. Blaine hastened over to pull out her chair. He'd spent a lot of time memorizing this from the movies, and he was determined to get it right. "What's the occasion?"

"Oh. I… I just thought it would be nice."

Quinn smiled at him as she settled in her seat, smoothing the pleats of her skirt. "So what are we having?"

"Chicken fingers and mashed potatoes and salad," Blaine answered, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry… it's all I know how to make."

Quinn didn't quite manage to stifle a giggle. "That's okay; I like that."

"Good," Blaine said. "I'll just go get it then."

He returned with their food, already plated, and they sat down together to eat, Blaine prompting Quinn to tell him more about her book (which did sound really, really interesting.) They'd shared meals a million times before, and maybe it was just his nerves, but while their conversation flowed as easily as ever, something about this meal felt different.

His palms began to sweat as their plates emptied.

"I… do you want dessert now?" he asked Quinn when she was finished. "Or… I had something else in mind."

Quinn looked amused. "I'm full—it was very good by the way, thank you. What else were you thinking?"

Blaine stood shakily and offered her his hand. "Come with me?"

Quinn curled her delicate fingers into his with an easy, pleased smile. Blaine led her into the living room, abandoning her in the middle of the floor while he fiddled with the entertainment center. Soon music filled the air—classical stuff that wasn't usually Blaine's taste, but his parents seemed to love it, and he knew Quinn did too. "Dance with me?" he asked, turning back to her.

"Sure," Quinn said, her face glowing prettily in a blush.

Neither of them really knew how to dance—not like this, anyway—but they fumbled through it together with minor damage to anyone's toes. Blaine's heart beat faster with every passing moment, his body tensing. How was he going to do this?

"Blaine, you're all tense," Quinn observed. "Is something wrong?"

"No!" he answered, too-quickly. "It's nothing; it's just… I'm trying to kiss you."

"What?" Quinn's movement halted so suddenly that Blaine almost tripped.

"I'm… I just… I mean, I don't want to do it wrong!"

"Well, you needn't have gone through all this fuss," Quinn said matter-of-factly. Her voice softened. "I've been wondering… when you would."

Blaine stared at her. Her lips looked soft, pink, and yeah, he was curious but…

"Why don't you just do it already?" Quinn said, hands on her hips.

So Blaine did.

It was simple, nice, anti-climatic, and Blaine felt really stupid for having worried so much over something so easy. He lingered for a few moments, then pulled back. Quinn's eyes were closed; he could hear her breathing in little puffs.

"Quinn?" he prompted, hoping he hadn't done something wrong.

Her eyes opened, and then she rushed forward, joining their lips again.

This kiss wasn't so simple. Quinn's mouth moved against his so Blaine followed with it, daring to flick his tongue out against her lips just to see. But when she began to open her mouth, little by little, Blaine drew away.

"Okay?" he said, feeling mostly relief that it was over with.

"A little more than okay, I'd say," Quinn offered, cheeks flushing even darker.

Blaine smiled and took her hand. "Let's just dance some more?" he suggested.

Quinn shook her head playfully. "Nope. Maybe later. I want some of those brownies!"

* * *

Blaine's fourteenth birthday party, like all the birthday parties he'd had before, was crowded with nearly every kid he'd ever met, and very few that Blaine actually liked. Wes and David were there—sons of Blaine's father's friends whom Blaine would be going to high school with come autumn. He had spoken with them a few times before, and they were alright. Blaine really hoped that with the new school year he could maybe, finally, make some real friends.

As it was, he sat off to the side with Quinn, who once again had her nose buried in a book. His mother had already asked her once to put it away and "socialize," but Blaine's father had objected, pointing out that education was more important, and wasn't it great that Quinn had shaped up to be such a smart, proper young Fab?

Fab. Blaine was beginning to hate the word. Outside of his home, it was starting to seem more like an excuse to treat someone badly, as less than a person. He knew he would never, could never, treat Quinn that way.

He watched the guests as they arrived and were greeted by his mother. Blaine knew she would prefer him to greet them with her, but by now his hatred for these sorts of parties was no secret, and his parents had reluctantly agreed to tolerate his attitude so long as he kept a smile pasted on his face and treated everyone cordially. It's not like they had a way to force him to comply, anyways.

Most everyone was here by now, Blaine noted, scanning the yard and taking quick count of his classmates and his parents' friends' children. Thirty-two puberty-ridden adolescents were in attendance, not counting himself and Quinn. Nearly a third of them were Fabs. Only about five guests yet to arrive, then.

He glanced back at his mother to find her leading yet another girl through the patio door. Angela—he recognized her from class. She was a shy girl, quiet and kind, one of the few that Blaine could see himself being real friends with if she ever came out of her shell.

But she wasn't the one who captured his attention.

Trailing behind her was a boy Blaine had never seen before. Had Angela gotten herself a Fab? He was tall, taller than Blaine for sure. His blonde hair was unremarkable, but even from this distance Blaine was struck by the dazzling blue of his eyes, standing out amongst his handsome features.

Quinn had never felt quite right—not like Blaine knew she was supposed to—but it wasn't until just now he'd found something that did.

_Someone_ who did.

It felt like he'd been frozen, like he was made of marble and someone had come along and tapped him carefully on the head, and suddenly the surface of him chipped away. He'd known this, somewhere. Even at five years old, when his father had taken him to the Fabrication company. It was one of his earliest memories. _Like Prince Eric_. But he'd forced it down, told himself it didn't matter, that it wasn't important.

He tore his eyes away from the boy to look back over at Quinn. She hadn't noticed him staring. His heart hurt for her, for himself, and he decided it in that moment.

He'd hold onto this, keep it safe within him. But Quinn could never know.

_Happy Birthday_, he thought, forcing himself to his feet, forcing himself to enter into the fray and interact in this empty place, with these empty people that made up his life.


	5. Part Five: Mercedes

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay, folks, RL has been a challenge lately! This chapter isn't very long, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. In the next part Kurt and Blaine *finally* meet. Took me long enough, I know ;-)

* * *

_Part Five – Age 14 – Mercedes_

_Freshman Year_

Mercedes was one of three children; she had an older brother and a younger sister. It wasn't unheard of, but it wasn't common either. Since the introduction of Fabs, most families stuck to having one or two children per government recommendation. But she loved her family, even though it was taxing at times to be the middle child. She had never cared much for meeting the status quo.

Maybe that was why Kurt had caught her eye at only four years of age. Even then—even among typically complacent, accepting preschool children—Kurt stood out. Kurt was different.

Mercedes wanted to be different, too. She wanted to shine. And yeah, maybe Kurt hadn't turned out to be the right kind of different to help her reach that goal, but he was the best friend she'd ever known, and damn if she was going to let him go. They'd been sent to different elementary schools, and still they had stuck together—through lost pets (Mercedes' Yorkie,) dead parents (Kurt's mother) and bullying.

And then, at only thirteen, Kurt got a Fab. It was the first thing that almost broke them.

Jealousy.

Mercedes' father was a dentist—a careful, practical man who sincerely wanted the best for his children, but didn't much care to take their own opinions into consideration as to what, precisely, the best _was_. Each of his offspring had savings accounts that he added to every month religiously so that when they reached the age of eighteen, they could order themselves a custom Fab.

No sooner. No arguments.

So when she showed up at Kurt's house on an ordinary Sunday and was, seemingly out of the blue, introduced to _Finn_, she wasn't quite sure how to react. Finn didn't say much—probably because he was still so new—but he was tall, handsome, and Mercedes could see why Kurt had picked him. She could even see why Kurt's parents had encouraged it, because yeah, Finn looked like he could take out a linebacker.

But it didn't stop the way she felt. Five years seemed a lot longer to wait when your best friend suddenly and unexpectedly had the very thing you wanted most, something and someone of their very own, a place to _belong_.

Mercedes had never really had anything she could call her own.

She tried to hide her feelings, really she did, but now every moment she spent with Kurt, _he_ was there too. They say Fabs adapt to their owners, but it was obvious from the very start that Finn didn't understand about things like fashion or boys or musicals. He didn't seem to like having his nails painted, showed a clear preference for plain clothing over the more flamboyant articles Kurt tried to sew for him, and would rather spend his time watching sports with Burt or fixing cars in the shop than gossiping and flipping through magazines. He wasn't unkind about it; he really tried to make Kurt happy, and Kurt was good to him in return. They had formed a bond despite their glaring differences, and it was this, oddly enough, that made Mercedes more envious than all the rest. Who did she have who would look past all the ways she was different—her weight, her diva-esque attitude, her penchant for all that was glitzy and glamorous—and love her in spite of it?

Eventually she snapped, fed up with the awkward way Finn would stare past the television screen, look down at his hands every few minutes when he forgot he was supposed to be watching until Kurt reminded him, and he'd resolutely try again.

"Kurt, why don't you just let the poor boy be? It's clear he doesn't appreciate _State Fair_! Hell, even I think this musical is boring; it's old as the hills!"

Kurt looked startled for a moment, glancing at Finn carefully to gage his reaction, but he was again staring down, avoiding Kurt's eyes. "Finn's fine," Kurt declared at last. "And what is with you lately, anyways? We're trying to learn the duet, but if you don't care to watch you're free to leave!"

It wasn't the first time they'd bickered with each other, not by any means, but it was the first time Mercedes felt prepared to let it escalate.

"Maybe I will," she said stubbornly. "Being home is sure better than playing third fiddle to your pathetic little love affair."

Kurt gasped then, tears springing to his eyes. "I can't believe you just said that!"

"Yeah, well," Mercedes looked away from him as a pang of regret shot through her. "Somebody needed to."

"You're supposed to be my friend," Kurt retorted, raising his chin in the air even as his voice trembled. "If you don't care to be then really—get out. Finn and I will be just fine on our own."

"Fine then!" Mercedes said just as stubbornly, grabbing her purse and marching to the bedroom door. "But don't expect me to come back!"

"I wouldn't want you to," Kurt shouted, then turned back to the TV, a clear dismissal, and Mercedes headed downstairs to call her mom. Luckily Carole didn't ask any questions, watching her with sympathy as she waited on the couch for her ride.

She called Kurt three days later. "I'm sorry," she confessed, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "I'm… I'm jealous, Kurt. That you have Finn. I get why you needed him but it's just that I don't get to have that until after high school and it just seems like forever right now and I'm just… I'm sorry," she finished lamely.

Kurt sighed on the other end of the phone. "It's alright. I'm sorry too. And… you know, 'Cedes… Finn isn't you. He can't replace you. And someday you'll have a Fab too, and then it can be the four of us and things will be easier; you'll see. And maybe… maybe next Sunday I'll let Finn help my dad at the shop for a bit."

"That would be nice," Mercedes said, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her. "I really miss you, Boo. I think we need some quality time."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed. "That sounds perfect. So… things will be better."

"Yep," Mercedes answered him. "And next year they'll _really_ be better. Let me tell you what happened to my brother in gym class today…"

Things did get better between them, especially, as predicted, the following Fall when they were finally, _finally_ at the same school. Unfortunately, aside from that and Glee club, which they both joined, ninth grade pretty much sucked.

It took Mercedes a while to see it, but eventually she had to admit… maybe it sucked for Kurt a little bit more.

Finn was well-liked for a Fab, particularly after joining the football team, and when he was around no one messed with Kurt, and if they did Finn put a stop to it. But sometimes he had different classes. Sometimes he wasn't there and when that happened, Kurt paid.

It was the little things. Taunts and shoves and the occasional threat, mostly from other jocks. Mercedes tried to talk to her friend about it, tried to get Kurt to go to Finn, explain what was happening behind his back, but Kurt always brushed her off.

"It's nothing, 'Cedes," he would tell her, smiling faintly. "Really, I'm fine. You should… you should see what it used to be like, before Finn. I'm lucky now. I have him, and I have you."

"And Glee club," Mercedes pointed out, even though she knew that the club, too, was yet another place where Kurt had to fight to be heard, to _matter_. Some days she wanted to punch Rachel Berry in the face for her own sake, but most days she wanted to punch the diva for Kurt.

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, "and Glee club." He looped their arms together and began to guide her down the hallway, talking excitedly about the sales the mall was having the coming weekend, and it was easy to go along with it.

It was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong, to buy Kurt's lies and phony smiles. Kurt had always been a complex person, so it took some time for Mercedes to pinpoint what exactly it was her friend was feeling—something basic and human and raw. Kurt was _sad_.

Somehow, Mercedes had to get him to talk. It wasn't going to be easy; she would have to approach it the right way.

It took months, but then one week they were watching _The Notebook_—a popular movie about a rich girl who fell in love with a poor boy the summer before her father was meant to order her a Fab—and Kurt, rather predictably, started to cry.

"That's just how life is, Mercedes, isn't it?" he ranted halfway through the film. "You think you've found a good thing but somehow it never lasts; life is never quite what you expected. I know this will end well, but it's a movie… real life never works that way."

"Kurt," Mercedes said softly. This could be it: her moment to get through to him. She grabbed the remote from where it rested on the floor between them and paused the movie, turning to give him her full attention. "Something's wrong, and it has been for a while. You wanna talk about it?"

Kurt sighed, his whole body heaving with it, and his chin began to tremble as the tears came anew. "Things with Finn… they… they aren't what I hoped."

"Okay," Mercedes said, reaching to cover his hand with her own.

"We got him to help protect me, you know that, and… he does, or at least he does his best. But I don't know; I guess when I picked him I expected… they told me he would like me, that he would come to be more like me, and we just haven't… connected that way? I know he loves me, but sometimes it feels like our relationship is such a burden to him. I can't… I can't make him happy, Mercedes."

"Oh Kurt…"

"And then I thought—and I know this is stupid—but I thought that once I got a Fab, that my life would magically get better. Like maybe I'd make more friends, and people would start to like me, and I'd feel like I… belonged, somewhere. But I don't. Nothing's changed; I'm still just that weird kid that nobody understands." He pulled his hand away from hers, wiped furiously at his eyes.

"I understand. Or at least I try to, Kurt."

Kurt offered her a watery smile. "I know. And I appreciate you so much, Mercedes, really I do. It's just… I still want more." He shrugged helplessly. "I know it's stupid to want things you can't have, but I can't help it."

"You'll have more," Mercedes said confidently. "We both will someday. It just takes time. Eventually we'll be adults, and things will get better. We'll make it better. You'll be a famous fashion designer, or on Broadway, or whatever, and I'll be on the radio. We'll show all of them!"

"Yeah," Kurt said, beaming now through his tears. "That sounds perfect."

Mercedes sighed and turned to face the TV. "High school sucks."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed.

"So you want to make some brownies before we finish crying over the movie?" She didn't know about Kurt, but chocolate _always_ lifted her spirits.

"That sounds perfect! With nuts though! And caramel!"

Mercedes knew there was a reason Kurt was her best friend.

As they made their way down to the kitchen, Mercedes' thoughts drifted back to their conversation. Maybe, just maybe, having a Fab was more complicated than she'd ever realized. Maybe waiting a few years wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe eighteen wasn't too far off after all.


	6. Part Six: Kurt

_Part Six – Age 15 – Kurt_

_Fall, Sophomore year_

On Kurt's first day of sophomore year there was a new boy at school. Kurt wouldn't normally notice except that the boy was _everywhere_, in half of Kurt's classes and in the hallways between them, a few steps in front of Kurt in the lunch line, standing at the front of the classroom in Glee after school, beaming with Mr. Shue's hand clasping his shoulder.

"Everybody, this is Blaine Anderson, and his Fab, Quinn." Mr. Shue nodded towards a gorgeous blonde girl tucked away in the corner, who offered a less-than-enthusiastic smile and a tiny wave. Blaine, though, perked up, almost bouncing on the toes of his shoes.

"Hi, everyone. I… umm, yeah, I'm Blaine. I've transferred in this year from Dalton—I'm a sophomore—and I was in their Glee club, so I'm really excited to be a part of yours."

Mr. Shue looked thrilled, but half the rest of the room seemed skeptical. Rachel wore a half-grimace, Jesse, her Fab, was outright glaring, and even Finn looked a little wary. "How about you sing for us? Too soon?"

"Next class?" Blaine suggested, looking to Quinn, who nodded curtly. "We'll do a duet."

"We're all looking forward to it," Mr. Shue told him. "Please, take a seat. Rachel, Jesse? I believe you two had something prepared?"

Kurt groaned, and Mercedes—sitting beside him—grimaced. Their eyes met in sympathy, Mercedes rolling hers dramatically. She mouthed _hell to the no_, and Kurt nodded in agreement.

The rest of the meeting passed quickly, mostly full of Mr. Shue's standard this-is-going-to-be-our-year! pep talk, and Kurt spent most of it watching Blaine. The boy was so many contradictions—quiet and loud, lively and restrained, blending in and set apart—and Kurt ached with how badly he wished to know him, to mean something, _anything_, in his life. It was not an altogether foreign feeling for him, except that this time, there was hope. Something in his gut told him that friendship with Blaine might be attainable, that Blaine might be different than so many others who had rejected him in the past.

He lingered after practice, shooing Mercedes away and making up some excuse so she'd leave without him, sending Finn a pointed look when he glanced at Kurt in confusion every few seconds while engaged in a conversation with Puck and Sam, both of whom played with him on the football team. Blaine had stayed back too—chatting amiably with Mike and his Nat, Tina—and Kurt didn't even realize he was staring as the room emptied out until Mr. Shue called his name, asking if he needed him for something, and all Kurt could offer was a shake of his head and a shrug.

"I never realized Blaine was so fascinating," an amused voice said from behind him, and he spun around to find Quinn standing there, watching him with an unreadable expression on her face. "He gets boring after a while, I promise."

Kurt felt heat rising to his face. "Oh, I… I was waiting to talk to Tina."

Quinn shrugged, and Kurt wondered if she believed him. "Blaine's very friendly, you know. If you want something from him, just ask. He doesn't bite."

Kurt opened his mouth to reply—with what he wasn't sure—when Quinn muttered _"speak of the devil."_

"Hey, guys!" Blaine still looked overly cheerful as he approached them, immediately turning to Kurt and offering his hand. "I'm Blaine," he said as Kurt shook it.

"Yeah, I… I remember."

Blaine merely raised an amused eyebrow at him. "Oh… Kurt," he supplied, remembering himself and abruptly dropping Blaine's hand. What was it with his reaction to this guy, anyways?

"It's nice to meet you, Kurt," Blaine said politely, ignoring Kurt's awkward fumbling. "I see you met Quinn."

"Yeah. She's very… nice. I… I have a Fab too. Finn," he said, gesturing to where the taller boy was watching them from across the room.

"Really?" Blaine's face brightened impossibly. "Well, then, we'll have to all go out together sometime, won't we Quinn?"

"Sure," Quinn agreed dispassionately.

"Here, give me your phone." Blaine fished his cell out of his pocket and held it out for Kurt, who took it and handed over his own. "I'll text you some time; we'll set something up. Maybe with Mike and Tina? They seem nice."

Kurt nodded, entered his number mindlessly and they exchanged phones again. "Great!" Blaine said, clapping a hand to his upper arm, and Kurt flinched. Blaine's expression faltered, and he quickly removed his hand. "I'll see you soon, then."

"Great," Kurt echoed, offering him a nervous but genuine smile, watching as he grabbed his shoulder bag and took Quinn's hand and then left the room. "Good to meet you!" he called out after them too-late, mentally slapped himself as he did so.

"What was that about?" Finn asked, coming up behind him. "Can we leave now?"

"Yeah," Kurt agreed. "Just making a new friend."

Halfway through the building, Kurt took a risk and slid his hand into Finn's, feeling equal parts brave and foolhardy and desperate for some kind of connection. Finn glanced at him in shock but didn't let go. Of course he didn't.

His hand was warm and large, familiar, and Kurt thought about maybe trying to kiss him again later. They had to figure it out sometime, right?

Why was being a teenager so damned confusing?

* * *

To Kurt's surprise he received a text from Blaine the very next night, asking if he and Finn were free to get together Friday. Kurt stared at his phone in shock for a moment before shaking it away, remembering about Friday night dinners and how angry his dad got that one time last year he wanted to skip. He texted back _Saturday?_

**Sure, that could work J How about lunch?**

_Noon? Breadstix?_

**Great, we'll see you there!**

Kurt let his phone fall to the bed and breathed deeply until his pulse slowed to something resembling normal.

* * *

The next day—Wednesday—Kurt had Glee again. Blaine's eyes found his as he entered the room, and he smiled at Kurt, taking the seat beside him without asking permission. Mercedes shot him a curious glance from where she was seated at his other side, but Kurt only shrugged. Finn sat behind him, Quinn commandeering the back corner again while Tina and Mike sat together a few chairs over from her, Puck and Sam beside Finn, Rachel and Jesse front and center as usual, right next to where Artie had parked his wheelchair. Santana and her Fab, Brittany, came slinking in late and took seats on the far side of the room.

The first order of the day was Blaine and Quinn's solo, and Kurt was stunned at how good they were, separately andtogether, singing Michael Buble's _Lucky_. Blaine looked rather pleased with himself when Kurt's eyes followed him back to his seat, shooting him a little wink that made Kurt's heart flutter strangely in his chest.

After class Rachel and Jesse cornered Blaine and Quinn, probably for an interrogation, and Kurt didn't envy them one bit as he and Finn made their way out of the room, Blaine catching his eye and offering him a small smile. Well, there was no reason Kurt _needed_ to talk to Blaine, he reminded himself. And they had plans for the weekend, anyways.

On Saturday Kurt fussed extra-long in front of the mirror—for some reason nothing looked quite right today, and he couldn't pinpoint _why_—and he and Finn were ten minutes late getting to the restaurant. Kurt spent most of the car ride lecturing Finn on his poor grooming habits, so much so that he felt guilty by the time they arrived and reached over to give Finn's hand a small squeeze as they were directed to their table, receiving a weak smile in return that he knew meant he was forgiven. Finn was used to Kurt's high-standards and his lectures by now, and sometimes it was good to have that familiarity, that acceptance, to depend on.

When they got to their seats it wasn't just Blaine and Quinn there—tables had been pushed together and extra chairs crammed in, and Tina and Mike, Rachel and Finn, Santana and Brittany were sitting there, all but the latter two engaged in conversation. Santana was yelling at a waitress in what might have been Spanish, and Brittany was twisting some straw wrappers together to make little people.

"Kurt!" Blaine smiled warmly, interrupting the chatter as if to declare his arrival. "So glad you guys came, I was worried there for a bit!" He patted the seat next to him—empty, as well as the chair next to it—and Kurt couldn't help but smile back as he hurried to sit, greeting each of his other "friends" in turn as he did so. Only Tina and Mike returned his greeting with any level of sincerity.

"Really, Kurt, you could try to be more punctual! Jesse and I are getting hungry, and Blaine insisted we wait for you to order." Jesse nodded in agreement, and it took all the strength within Kurt not to scowl at them.

Rachel had had Jesse since Kurt met her—his first day of high school—and rumor had it that her dads had paid a pretty penny to purchase the most advanced level of musical aptitude and cutthroat ambition when they had him custom ordered. Kurt often wondered if his creators hadn't compensated by making him a self-righteous asshat.

"It's alright, Kurt, we didn't mind the wait," Tina said kindly. Santana scoffed, yanking what looked suspiciously like a margarita from the frenzied-looking waitress when she hurried back to their table.

They placed their orders soon after, and the conversation turned to Sectionals—a dangerous subject, in Kurt's opinion. Blaine seemed eager to fill the group in on his own accomplishments the previous year, Rachel encouraging him by asking very careful questions that Kurt knew really meant she was sizing up the competition. It wasn't long before she was bragging about her own numerous accolades—and Jesse about his—which eventually pissed Santana off. Mike and Tina looked embarrassed, Quinn amused. Brittany, as usual, was lost in her own little world, and Finn was absorbed in the football game that was playing on the restaurant's big-screen TV.

Kurt winced internally as he took it all in, drained half of his ice tea, and threw himself to the lions. "Well," he cut Rachel off. "I really think it's obvious we've got so much talent this year, Rachel, that we should probably focus on group numbers. We could have smaller solos as part of the group songs, let everyone who wants one have a shot. And Mike, you and Brittany could do something with your dancing; you're both so talented."

Blaine was nodding as he spoke, and Tina perked up, beaming at Mike and squeezing his hand. Santana smirked and said, "I _did _request extra flexibility!"

"That's… ridiculous, Kurt. No one ever wins competitions with _group numbers_, you're just wasting everyone's talent, letting them think you've got no one _special_! If we get three numbers, then it naturally comes down to a solo, a duet, and _one _group number, and we all know who they're going to go to…"

"Wait, you guys don't hold auditions?" Blaine asked.

"Of course we do," Kurt told him, "Mr. Shue insists."

"And this year, one of those numbers is going to _me_, so bring it on bitch-Berry!"

"Well, I never!" Rachel exclaimed. Jesse leaned close to her, whispered something that sounded a lot like _it's okay, babe, you know you're a star, _and something about jealously. "You're just bitter because you don't have half the talent…"

"Enough!" Kurt tried to intervene, though they paid him little mind.

"Yeah, guys," Tina broke in. "This isn't cool. We all have unique voices, and we're all going to get a shot at solos this year. You aren't the only one who wants one, Rachel, and Mike and I are a year ahead of you—we only have two years left!"

"Sam is a senior," Mike pointed out. "And so is Puck. Maybe _they _should get a shot at a solo."

"That sounds fair to me," Kurt conceded. "We'll just wait and see how it goes, then. Fair and square."

The others nodded—save for Rachel and Jesse, who still looked put-out—and soon after that their food arrived. Tina began to complain about one of her teachers, everyone else following suit, and the remainder of the meal was slightly more tolerable.

As they made to leave, someone caught Kurt's elbow just outside the door. "Hey," Blaine said once he had Kurt's attention, "I'm sorry about that in there."

Kurt offered him a smile. "Yeah, it wasn't quite what I expected."

"I thought it would be a nice way to get to know everybody, the other couples I mean," Blaine shrugged. "I had a lot of friends at my last school, but no one very close, and before that no one at all, really, save for Quinn. I thought it would be a good idea to try a little harder."

"I could have warned you," Kurt said, "about Rachel and Jesse. They're a little… intense."

"That's one word. But hey, you live and learn. Maybe next time it could be just the four of us? I don't know, Mike and Tina are alright, too. And Brittany's kind of endearing."

Kurt laughed and nodded. "Once you get used to her, yes. But then you have to put up with Santana. Has… has Quinn been with you long?"

Blaine glanced to where she and Finn were chatting with Mike and Tina a little ways off. "Since I was five," he confessed.

Kurt gasped. "Wow. That's…"

"I know. But it's great now. We're really close. That's kind of why I transferred; I was going to an all-boys school and I got sick of being without her. That and, well, I was popular and all but nothing really felt real there, you know? There's so much that's… _false_, in our world."

Blaine's hazel eyes bored into his—deep, accepting—and Kurt felt it then, something tingle through him. Like understanding. Like _connection_. "Yeah," he breathed. "I do, I… I know what that's like. I've had Finn two years now, and I love him, I really do, and he loves me, but… it's not what I thought. We're still working on it." He doesn't know why he's saying these things, things he's only ever told Mercedes and even then not in so many words.

"Relationships take time," Blaine said with a knowing smile, "but I think… I think things tend to work out in the end. It did for my parents, anyways."

"Mine too," Kurt said, wanting to elaborate, but it looked like Finn and Quinn were getting restless now—Mike and Tina had left—and this wasn't the time. "So we'll do this again?"

"Yeah," Blaine touched his arm the same way he had the day he'd introduced himself, but this time Kurt didn't move away, enjoying the warmth of his hand as Blaine squeezed a little, then finally let go. "I'd like to be your friend, Kurt."

"Yeah," Kurt echoed, still caught in Blaine's eyes. "I'd like that too. But… we should get back to our Fabs."

Blaine finally broke contact and looked over to them, chuckling at the awkward way they were standing, watching them, Finn leaning over slightly to say something to Quinn that Kurt couldn't hear. "Probably. I'll text you, alright?"

"Sure," Kurt agreed, and then Blaine moved away, walking towards Quinn, and Kurt followed him, giving Finn his warmest smile.

* * *

Mercedes came over that Sunday as always, bringing her tub of nail polish and a tin of homemade cookies. It wasn't obvious at first that anything was wrong—not until her toenails were drying and they were both finished with _Vogue _and flipping through _Glamour _(Kurt) and _Teen Vogue _(Mercedes).

"So," she said casually, and that was _always _a warning sign. "I heard about the big Glee dinner yesterday."

Kurt looked up to study her, hoping to glean some clue as to where this might be going because he could sense that it wasn't good, but her face was carefully blank. "It wasn't that big," he said. "Just ten of us. Who told you?"

"Tina mentioned it on the phone last night. And ten of you is most of the Glee club, Kurt. All the _couples_."

Kurt shrugged and deliberately looked back down at his magazine. "It was Blaine's idea. I guess he just thought we'd have something in common? I don't know. I didn't know that many people would be there. And I'm sure he intends to get to know all of you, 'Cedes."

Mercedes carefully turned a page, wriggling her toes in the air, still not looking at him. "He seems awfully interested in getting to know you."

"Yeah, well…" he was going to tell her why, but the truth was he didn't know why Blaine had taken such a liking to him. It certainly wasn't a common occurrence. "Rachel and Santana got into an argument about Sectionals solos," he offered instead.

Mercedes finally did look up and rolled her eyes. "Let me guess. Rachel insisted she should have the solo, she and Jesse should get the duet…"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Them haters just don't know yet that those good parts are going to us this year, Boo," Mercedes said confidently, making him feel a little better about her emotional state. Then, "You should have filmed Santana on your camera."

"Yeah, well—it wasn't that epic, to be honest. We only argued for a bit and then ended up talking about school."

Mercedes very carefully painted a second coating onto her big toe, eyes fixed on her work. "And does Blaine like the new school?"

It was blunt, abrupt, and Kurt found himself staring at her, blinking slowly, imploring her to _look at him, damnit!_ Finally, she did.

"I don't know," Kurt answered cautiously. "He didn't really say. We mostly talked about teachers, honestly, and he hasn't been around enough to relate much. Mercedes, what is up with you? Did I do something wrong?"

Mercedes sighed and put down her magazine. "Blaine seems to really like you."

"You already said that," Kurt all but snapped.

"And you like him too."

"Yes, I do. So what's your point? He… he wants to be my friend. There's not exactly a lot of other kids lining up to be my friend."

"_I'm_ your friend. It's always been the two of us. No one… no one likes me, either."

Kurt felt the tension drain out of his body, his heart drop in his chest. "Mercedes," he told her sincerely, reaching for her hand and looking her in the eye. "You'll always be my best girl. I promise."

Mercedes smiled at him—her first real smile of the day; he could tell these things. "Yeah, well… it's good for you to finally have another friend, I guess. Besides Finn. Just… try to include me sometimes?"

Kurt nodded his agreement. And he meant it, he did. Just… something told him the connection he felt with Blaine—_it's new it's brand new Kurt what do you know yet you don't even understand what you're feeling it's just the way he smiles at you what does that mean it doesn't mean anything just quit while you're ahead_—might be something bigger, something different than he'd shared with anyone before, even Mercedes, even Finn, and he kind of wanted to cradle it close, see how it would grow and keep it for only himself, at least for a little while.


	7. Part Seven: Quinn

_Part Seven – Age 16 – Quinn_

_Fall, Junior year_

Quinn stared into her own hollow eyes in the bathroom mirror as she carefully applied her lipstick. Satisfied, she blotted, gave herself a once-over. Hair, check. _Wear it up, Quinn dear. You're sixteen now: a woman, not a schoolgirl. _Outfit, check. _Always keep your clothing neat, feminine. Female Fabs are like arm-candy, darling, you want to give my son something to be proud of! _Makeup, check. _Cosmetics are important. With the right makeup, a woman can give off any impression she likes. Wear it as your mask. Proper Fabs are not meant to appear too emotional. _Some days, Quinn wished she could banish Mrs. Anderson's voice from her head. Other days it was welcome, a comfort even. Those were the days she most wanted to hide.

She grabbed her bag, made to leave the girls' room when the door suddenly swung open, Rachel Berry bursting in like a hurricane. Quinn barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "Quinn!" Rachel exclaimed excitedly, coming too-close, right up under Quinn's chin. "Thank God, I thought I saw you come in here! The girls are about to start rehearsal for our number this week, did you forget?"

Quinn took a step back, smiled fakely. "I'm sorry, I have other plans."

Rachel looked dumbfounded. "But—I told you on Monday and reminded you yesterday! We picked a time when everyone was free!"

"I was free, but Blaine made plans for us to get together with Kurt and Finn this afternoon. You know how it is." Quinn shrugged. Of course Rachel didn't know how it is. She was a Nat, and the girl couldn't see past her own big-headedness.

"Blaine would understand. This is… this is important, Quinn. If you don't join us we can't cover all the parts for my backup!"

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Quinn said as sweetly as she could manage. "I'm going to be late, if you'll excuse me."

"But—"

"I'll see you tomorrow at practice."

Rachel's arms crossed as Quinn turned away, and she could hear her huff and stomp her feet. Always the diva. "There's a reason why Blaine always wants to hang out with them, you know! Everybody else sees it, and you're in denial if you haven't yet!"

Quinn ignored her, took a deep breath when the door swung shut behind her and then hurried down the hall, wanting to get as far away as possible before Rachel finished her fit and followed her out.

Blaine had said he would be waiting by Kurt's Navigator; they had plans to drive together to the local theater. The movie they were seeing this time sounded promising, though Quinn thought that Finn would probably hate it. Finn always hated the movies Blaine and Kurt chose, but he never put up much of a fuss. He was a bit dull, but overall Quinn thought that Finn was a pretty good Fab. Anyone could see that he was devoted to Kurt, however little they had in common, and—plainly put—Finn knew his place. A Fab that knew his place was something Quinn had been brought up to respect.

Quinn knew her place, too. Blaine valued her, listened to her opinions, and Quinn never took that for granted. She had seen enough of the world now to know that the way she was treated wasn't the norm, and the norm… well, the norm wasn't very good.

So when Blaine wanted to go to the movies with Kurt—and Blaine often wanted to go to the movies with Kurt—Quinn didn't protest, didn't complain or offer to mention it if she had plans. Besides, she enjoyed these double dates. For some reason Blaine was always more attentive to her around Kurt: holding her hand, getting the doors, his fingers brushing the small of her back, guiding her in a crowd. Blaine was a tactile person with pretty much everybody, Quinn included, but the extra attention always made her feel happy, special.

He hadn't always been so outgoing. A year at Dalton had changed him. Blaine had made friends there, found people he truly trusted, who saw something in him that wasn't a dollar sign or a prestigious last name. It probably hadn't hurt that every Dalton boy had those things in common.

Blaine had been happy at Dalton—lead singer of the Warblers—and he'd given it up for her. Willingly and at a cost, without even being asked.

As she approached the car, Blaine straightened from where he'd been leaning close to Kurt's ear, offering her a broad smile, taking her hand to tug her close and kiss her cheek. Quinn beamed. Finn said, "hey, Quinn," and Kurt gave a little wave, and she smiled at them, too.

"You ready to go?" Blaine asked. "The movie starts in fifteen minutes."

Quinn nodded, sliding into the back seat next to Blaine, not even minding when Finn and Kurt began to affectionately bicker over the radio station.

* * *

The movie was even better than Quinn had expected. Blaine's knuckles brushed hers as they reached into the popcorn, and Blaine's hand settled on her knee. Quinn turned to smile at him when he did it, only to see Kurt and Finn kissing softly just beyond Blaine's head. Quinn wished Blaine would kiss her, too. He didn't do it often, and when he did it was usually a perfunctory peck. Blaine always claimed he wanted to wait for them to be older, was afraid of them getting too carried away, and Quinn really wanted to believe him. Unfortunately, she had spoken with too many other Fabs, all testifying that their Nats exercised no such restraint.

Kurt and Finn broke apart soon after, and Blaine squeezed her knee, beaming at her in that way he had, and Quinn felt her heart soar in her chest, turned back to the movie and tried to lose herself in the story. After a while it worked.

When the show was over they decided to go to dinner. Kurt vetoed Breadstix, much to Finn's dismay, so they drove to the local Sonic instead. Watching Finn down three double-burgers, Quinn decided he must not mind so much after all.

It was happenstance—a completely insignificant moment. Kurt was eating his chicken with his fork, staring at Finn in mild disgust and there was… ketchup, of all things, all over his mouth. And Quinn could see clearly when it became too much, when Kurt couldn't take it anymore. He huffed, dipping a clean napkin in his water cup and reaching up; he cupped Finn's face, muttered, "look at you, such a slob," started cleaning him and it was so oddly _domestic_, so intimate, and Blaine… Blaine reached for her hand, even though she was using it to eat her fries. Quinn looked over at him with a smile on her face, to show him _what they share, yes, we share it too_.

Only Blaine wasn't looking at her, not at all. He was gazing at Kurt with something like… sorrow? Envy? _Longing?_

And Quinn, who never felt, who never showed feeling, never focused on anything in this world except for Blaine, being perfect for _Blaine_… she could feel it now, her heart breaking in two. She could feel it with all the intensity of a building crumbling, a forest felling, Atlantis being swallowed up by the Ocean.

It had taken her years, but now with one look she had finally figured it out.

* * *

That night Blaine hesitated before they parted ways for their own rooms, hugging her close, asking _are you alright_ with eyes that bled sincerity and read too much. Quinn nodded, tightening her arms around him, and then… she let him go.

Quinn went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, thought back on the day, to before, to how different everything felt only hours ago, standing in the restroom at McKinley High. She washed her face—washed off her mask—with water as freezing as ice. She let down her hair and changed her clothes, forgoing the pretty nightgowns Blaine's parents were kind enough to buy her in favor of an old t-shirt she'd stolen from Blaine months ago.

She tried to sleep, and she told herself:

Quinn, he loves you. That boy loves you. Maybe not that way. Maybe not like _that_, but… look at everything you've had together. Look at how long you've been together. He dotes on you. He treats you like a human being. He fought his parents for you, for the right to attend public school, for the right to give up Dalton and his _friends _and his happiness there so he could spend all day with you. You're his best friend. You're the most important person in his life.

_Except_, a tiny, deceitful, _hateful _little voice echoed in her head. _Except maybe you're not, anymore._

* * *

The next day Quinn walked into school on Blaine's arm, a perfect caricature, the prettiest doll. Blaine pulled her along to Kurt's locker, and as they approached Quinn turned to look at Blaine, thought: _I'd do anything for you, for you to be happy._

Kurt greeted Blaine first, started talking excitedly about their plans for the weekend, for shopping with Mercedes. Blaine turned to Quinn with a look that said _"you'll come too, right?" _and Quinn nodded, tightened her grip on his arm.

It was then that Kurt finally paused to consider her, offering a cheerful, "Good morning, Quinn. I love that dress!"

Quinn smiled and thanked him and it hardly even hurt; it was hardly even fake.

_A woman can give off any impression she likes._

And a Fab could too.


End file.
